


Gallant offers ill-delivered

by drcalvin



Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Sex, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Hurt people helping each other, Master & Servant, Misogyny, Old Age, One Night Stand, Onesided Tybalt/Julia mentioned, Oral Sex, Sex with misgivings, Sexual instruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nurse Angelica is not young, but she also doesn't feel old enough to lay aside all pleasures of the flesh. When she makes an offer to a man she thought would be amiable to at her advances, he spurns her cruelly.</p><p>Then, it knocks on her door, and she learns that there are still courteous men in fair Verona.</p><p>(Courteous, perhaps, but not always well-versed in what a woman wishes. Luckily, Angelica knows her mind and is not afraid to speak it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gallant offers ill-delivered

**Author's Note:**

> a.k.a. the latest installment in the ongoing attempt to pair Tybalt with everyone else in Hungarian leather-and-fire Verona.

She unpins her hair and it tumbles down her shoulders, still vibrant in color. A deep brown edging to red, with thick curls. She is allowed to keep it elegantly put up, like a proper lady, in a style that flatters more than the widow-cap she should properly be wearing.

Not that Angelica is a lady. But he isn't a lord either.

She combs the hair slowly, watches herself in the polished mirror. It has one crack along the lower edge, which is why Lady Capulet gave it to her years ago. It is a fine, fine thing to own such a mirror.

To properly brush hair takes time. Lady Capulet's girl brushes hers with at least a hundred strokes every morning. On Saturdays, she has it perfumed and combed with another three hundred strokes; on Tuesdays too, if the weather has been harsh. All to keep it golden smooth, a woman's pride. 

Angelica is still getting used to having the time to comb her hair in peace. When she was younger, there was little point in anything but essential care. Tears and snot on bad days; sticky, pudgy hands and giggled drool on good days. All tangling up her hair, no matter how much she tried to pin it away. 

Sweat would bead on her head when she carried up the water for daily washing and when she took down the laundry. Sparks would singe any escaped tresses when she stoked the fire for her little girl, who froze so in the winter. In later years, there was less drool, but still tears. The nuns were harsh and the French tutor was harsher, but harshest was the dance mistress who also taught manners. No riding, no tumbling with the cousins, not looking at the boys and their swordplay, not for a girl of noble name.

To properly raise a child takes time, time Angelica has never regretted. Of course it left traces on her body. Did they think she did not know? She, who has kept watch on her curious little frog during fourteen summers – with deep ponds and high trees – and winters, cold enough to chill lungs and freeze the stars slippery, she could never oversee the blunt passage of time?

On her brow can be read the chronicle of Julia's fevers and sleepless evenings, when she glanced down at the parties and begged for treats and gossip. 

If the flesh of her bosom is turned shapeless compared to the young maids, it is from the weight of fourteen summers gone in the company of a sweetly singing child… And, perhaps, they carry also the weight of memory of the other one, the tiny girl whose lips were always blue, until the day she would no more labour for breath. Angelica buried her own tears with that child, letting the very last ones run down her cheeks into the pitiful grave. 

Her face was narrower then, before the Capulet clan enfolded her and handed her another little girl. This one rosy cheeked and sweet, hers to hold and cherish. If only she gave of her body and her time. She found it a fair trade – she still does. 

But the years have left their marks, as has the rich food and warm bedding. They stand written in the rolls on her stomach, the roundness of her arms, in her jowls that quiver when she laughs. Should she regret these comforts too? 

Not that she doesn't harbor regrets; what soul doesn't? When the wind blows cold, her shoulder aches and she'll recall a husband she'd have been wiser not to accept. But for all that his hand was heavy, he did not begrudge her the new position. He had let her go, content with her promise of monthly letters; they'd help keep him in well-filled cups, and that was all he asked from life.

On her hands, the veins have become more pronounced and the hair seems coarser than when she was a girl. But if her joints creak in the mornings, she is free of the ache that pained her mother so. Always worst in her knees, on which she had knelt scrubbing and cleaning throughout a thousand days. 

Angelica is not a lady, but she is allowed a lady's shawl. She can sit at a lady's mirror to brush her hair, not yet gone gray.

 _His_ hair has gone white, what little of it he has left. White now, like the mustache he primps as carefully as any girl her hair. His hands are rough, like her husbands was, and his back stooped.

But Angelica has seen him with the horses, how he treated them well. Strong hands that could move softly; she would not mind callouses. She had learned logic at Julia's side, repeated the lessons and helped pronounce the dusty terms. Was it not logical, that a man who treated horses well, would treat a woman similarly? 

But men aren't logical.

Angelica brushes her hair. She does not cry. She has a room of her own now that Julia is older; only a door away from her charge, as far as she wishes to be. Here, she will remain until her hair is fully gray and her eyes have grown dim. By then she imagines she will be the storyteller by the hearth, an entertainment for those little frogs that escape their own nurse. She has already thought of how to pick her: a woman with gentle hands and gentler eyes. 

By then, Old Angelica will need a room with more peace, closer to the warmth of the kitchens. She will be ashes and age, the fires inside long since burned out and she hopes to look back at these years and know them to have been good. 

But surely, she is not there yet? That long evening of life when age lulls to sleep, until you don't notice when death comes a-courting. 

So she brushes her hair, each stroke intended to wipe away the words that tried to age and shame her. Her hair falls smooth, but her thoughts remain a tangled mess. Won't listen to reason, only circle back on themselves and hurt more and more on every round. As hopeless as the rest of her, old widow that she is. 

Old woman who dared ask the stablemaster to join his fire to hers. He too is a widower. She did not ask in jest, like the teasing of a young girl… No, Angelica asked with honesty in both her smile and her waiting embrace.

At least, she tells the pitying mirror with it's pitiful crack, he gave her honesty in return. He did not lead her on.

But did he have to tell the young men? If he did, if men need to share these things like goosy girls, why tell them with sneers and mocking, reveal them his disgust? What hurt her question so, that he must compare her offering to that of street girls with painted faces and the ancient eyes? They seemed something all men had need of – her husband and the stablemaster and the young lordlings alike – to bed those girls with hollow souls, their age chiseled into mocking bitterness, and all their truths hidden beneath rouge and perfumes.

Surely, her eyes are not that ancient.

At last, Angelica rolls up her hair and puts on the cap, cleans the brush and clears the table. Julia sang to her today, she tells herself as she draws up her blankets. That girl understands more than she shows and her heart is too tender a jewel sometimes. That frightens Angelica, because a woman needs to be a fortress against the world. But it comforts her too, although she will admit this only to her pillow, which listens with mute patience.

There are two doors to Angelica's room. One is the nurse's door – where Julia enters, or calls for her – through which Nurse begins each working day, with a hearty good morning! The other door goes to the servant's hall. Here the maids come in with water and firewood, or tip-toe in to blushingly ask for Angelica's advice.

It is rare that anyone knocks on either, particularly at this late hour. 

Nobody has ever knocked on Angelica's door like this. Firm raps, not the nervous tapping of a boys bringing urgent messages from upstairs. No, these are three knocks, firmer every beat – a pause, and Angelica finds the blanket clutched hard in her hand. Twice it knocks again. 

She slips out of bed, draws her evening gown tight around her. Three more knocks, as stern as Prince Escalus' men at the gate come to deliver official reprimands. 

Suspicion rises within her; this is too heavy to be anyone but a man. A man who has changed his mind? No, more likely a lout who has looked too deeply into his cups and thinks to take what has never been on offer to him; she will teach him that the fire poker in her hand is not for show. 

Steeled against threats, a gleam of hope nevertheless surviving, it is surprise that wins the bet. 

When Angelica cracks her door open, she finds neither the stablemaster come to beg forgiveness, nor a drunken servant on the prowl. Instead, she finds master Tybalt at her door. He holds a candle-stump, it's weak light leaving too many shadows on his face for her to even guess his mood.

"Good evening," Angelica says, at loss for anything but politeness. She steps back and draws open the door, and so gains more light from her own candle. 

Master Tybalt has not brushed his hair a hundred times tonight. As he has begun to take on more of a man's duties, he cuts it shorter with every season, but still ignores than even men's hair need an occasional comb. His cheek is stubbled this late at night, but she does not find the haunted look that surrounds him in his illness, nor does he reek of wine or other spirits.

"Good evening, Nurse." He does not speak it as a title. To him, to all the young men in the house, what Angelica does is what she is and nothing more can she ever be. She knew that before their laughter, before the whispers raced among them all. She needs no more reminder of it tonight. 

"Master Tybalt." She offers him neither smile nor curtsy. At this hour, with all her years behind her, she will not simper when she is drawn so oddly from her bed. "Is something wrong?"

He lifts his candle, towers over her with the effortless arrogance of youth and wealth. She raises her chin in silent challenge, considers tapping her foot, then restrains herself. Angelica does not fear Tybalt and his temper, not like the kitchen girls who whisper about his fits when they think their betters cannot hear, nor like the boys outside, who dare each other to run past and touch him, as were he a rabid dog. Angelica has seen enough to know that she needs not fear him when his eyes are clear. And she has lived long enough to know that all women need to remain on their guard in Capulet's house: she forgot earlier today and is already coming to rue it. 

"Let me in and we'll talk."

A thought like ice grips her suddenly. "Nothing has happened with Julia?"

"Never." 

Angelica steps back. She sets aside the poker, though she pulls the gown tighter. Then she deliberately turns her back to him, and lights two more candles. "What is it then that brings you here so late?"

He doesn't answer her. Ignoring her frown, his gaze instead wanders around her room, lingering at her mirror and the dried flower hanging from its frame. He cocks his head at her heavy wardrobe – he might well recognize it, Angelica realizes, for it stood in his mother's room until two years ago – but does not comment until he notices the sketch framed on her wall.

"Julia," he says softly, steps towards the image as were he pulled to it, a sunflower gazing at its sun.

"She is not to be disturbed at this hour," Angelica responds, most firmly.

Her words breaks the spell on Tybalt, at least for the moment. Discomfited, he turns away, then asks if it is the sketch for the large portrait in Lady Capulet's room – of course it is, as they both know. Angelica answers as shortly as she dares. No, she does not fear Tybalt, but she has no wish to speak of Julia with him. Not in the middle of the night, nor beneath the blazing sun. No, round Julia they will keep silent speak until Angelica has grown withered and gray, and there is a brood of children and two well-to-do spouses standing guard between the cousins. Then, and only then, is she willing to hear him out.

"Master Tybalt, it is late," she reminds him. "And I am an old woman."

"So I've heard," he says, twitching a smile at her. "Today, quite often."

She had expected many things of him, unpredictably young lordling that he is, but not these words, not the hurt they bring.

"They say a great many things, people, when they think nobody of importance can hear. Or when the person of importance is, hah, too distracted to listen." His smile flickers like a dying flame. "They say even more, I learned today, when they don't fear reprimands for their laughter."

"I do not listen to such gossip." She had not intended to cross her arms, but finds herself clutching herself, bracing herself for him to repeat their mockery. "Nor should you, Master Tybalt."

"Then how would I ever know if I am a madman or merely a growling wolf on any given day?" he asks, his smile returning; it is no less sharp for all that it lingers longer this time. He lets his fingers dance through a candle flame, the light reflecting in his eyes, and she curses herself for a fool who let him in. "I cannot ask the damn Montagues' for their opinion, now can I? Since their insults I need repay in blood, and my uncle has ordered me not to wet my knife too often."

"Blood and knives! I know how you play with the Montague boys. Half the time, your 'battles' end before your fists are bruised, and the only blades you use are in the brothels afterwards."

He touches his forelock, like a page boy begging her pardon. "You wound, Nurse, but you wound with truth." If his face softened at her growling, it grows sinister once more as he continues. "Still, you ought to know how words can wound when fired from the right bow."

"I don't have to listen to this!"

"Peace, m'lady." He spreads his hands, shrugs off her silent anger. "I will not repeat what I have heard – we both know the gist of it I come only with an offer, freely spoken and honestly meant."

"I do not need a wolf, or even a rabid dog, to run my errands," Angelica says, her tone haughty enough for the Duchess herself.

"I offer neither – for that, you'll have to ask," Tybalt replies, moving closer with long steps. "Hear me out, Nurse, before you turn away in anger. You are Julia's confidant. You have dried her tears when she wept, you have sheltered and saved her when the world was too harsh… Shush." He puts a finger against her lips, and surprise binds Angelica's tongue. She is rarely touched by anyone but her charge. How long since strong, male hands, touched her with such gentleness? 

Too long, until she forgot the role that befits a woman in Capulet's house and dared to ask for the gentle touch of one she thought her equal. The men of Verona do not believe they have equals. Their scorn was her lesson, and she is wary now.

"You have her love, as surely as were you her mother," Tybalt continues. "And I would die before I saw Julia's mother insulted in this fashion."

"What have you –" Angelica bites back the accusation, steps backwards, but does not turn her face away. "Gossip does not bother me. I need no brave defender to protect my honor."

"Of course not." He is following her step for step, puts a strong hand on her shoulder and draws her to a stop. "I don't offer defense, nor honor. Only –" He bends down, his lips brushing over hers, the shock keeping Angelica rooted. "To you, who has given Julia so many precious things that I could never grant her… to you, I would give the one thing I have to freely offer." 

She sputters, tries to wave him off as were he an overly affectionate cat rubbing fur on her new shawl. "Foolishness! You shouldn't – I'm not interested in boys and their lovesick confessions."

He laughs at long last, but not solely at her. "If I am sick with love, that illness has no relation with this business. Tonight I offer what I can give: a man's body and some bedsport. That is all."

His grip changes, thumb press firmly against her collarbone. Anger churns in her and Angelica wishes it had been another servant at her door. As much as Tybalt might argue with his uncle, he is still of Capulet's blood, and she dares not throw him out. Even when he inclines his head closer and whispers against her hair. His voice rings sincere, gentle and she hates its falseness. Well has Tybalt grown to be a man of Verona, well has he learned to lie. 

"I offer only comfort, and the courtesy you deserve, mother of Julia's heart." Then he pauses, draws back and looks at her. "Unless… You cannot have given your _heart_ to a stablemaster who thinks himself grander than he is?"

"Of course not," Angelica snaps. "But what I ask of grown men and spring-chick boys is different entirely! Now stop this foolishness or I shall have to..." She flounders for a moment, unsure of what threat might work, until she recalls the thin door behind her. "I shall scream. And you know who will come then, to see her cousin drunkenly accosting her dear old nurse?"

"But I have not drunk, Nurse. And you have no reason to scream." Tybalt presses another kiss against her cheek, and his hand moves until she feels his fingers fold away the collar of her nightgown, stroke softly over her skin. He has well-born hands, lacking the callouses of her husband, and she feels a shiver travel along her neck. It has indeed been very long, since any man touched her.

Squirming free from his grip, she circles the bed, tries to put it as a wall between them.

His stride is too long, his shoes too soft in the soles and he follows her before she can rebuild his barriers. She crosses her arms instead, and turns her back on him. "Go away," she says. "You have had your laugh and stolen your kiss; go, brag, laugh about it with the other asses."

"Do you think I am here to mock you?" When Tybalt grips her shoulders anew, when he pulls her body close, she feels the other side of him: solid strength, a youth forged into steel. All the stories about his mad fury in battle flutter through her mind, moths of memory gnawing on her confidence. "I don't like to listen to nasty gossip," he says, speaking into her ear so that his breath becomes a caress against her skin. "And I don't find amusement in the suffering of my kin."

"We are not kin, Tybalt! I am your family's servant."

"But of course we are. Julia loves you like a mother. Thus, you are sacred to me." 

Madness, and yet she hears the hears the truth in his madness. For all the tangles of their lives, to Tybalt, Julia's love is clear and holy, a sunbeam among the clouds. Wherever it shines, Angelica suspects he'll see a place of worship.

"If kin we are, then all the more reason that you go away," she tries.

"Now you are the one mocking me." He lifts her cap and pulls her hair loose, the carefully pinned ringlets slipping free one by one. "If we are kin, all the more reason for me to aid you. Come, now, you know it too… Comforting Julia's mother is my sole duty in this house."

His words hit her like a fistful of snow. When the much-beloved brother died so violently, what was already cracked between man and wife, broke wholly. Among the shards grew silence, until everyone had to notice. Julia too, for all that Angelica attempts to fill it with sage advice and coarse wit. But in the broken silence of a marriage gone cold, other things grew; murky touches nobody allows themselves to see, lingering glances where there should be none exchanged. Oh, Angelica knows there is something different to the way lady Capulet's skirts rustle these days, and her mistress has always been the one best skilled in bringing Tybalt to heel… 

But there are limits to what she will learn in one day, and firmly, Angelica shuts that door on her thoughts. "Find a girl for comfort, then, and stop hounding an old woman."

Her hair is completely unbound now, and Tybalt combs through it with surprisingly gentle fingers. "I do not care to hound any of the girls in Verona." She thinks he presses kisses against her hair, as where he her lover in truth.

"What do you even wish of me?" Angelica regrets the question, but too late to take it back.

"Mother of Julia," he whispers, and his hand snakes around her, trailing down her nightgown like a promise. "You have given her so much and I –" A sharp breath; his hand lands on the knot of her nightgown. "Let me offer you some back, in return."

"Had Julia any debts to me, it would still not be up to you to repay them." She takes hold of his hand, squeezes it, and tries to find the path out of the thorns that have sprung up around them. "Julia is not yours, Tybalt. Let her obligations be her own." 

"Nurse, Nurse, you do not have to tell me that…" His fingers work the knot, slowly, and though she holds on to his hand, she cannot pull it away. It has been so long… "I merely offer, from one of her servants to another, a brief kindness."

She is enfolded by him, by his strong young arms holding her against the planes of his body. She feels confusion rise, when his voice whispers so gently against her hair, his masculine scent mingling with her own flowery perfume. 

How many years, since anyone but Julia has touched her? 

"I am old." Her spell of protection. Yet, her basest nature whispers to her, treacherous thing. Can anything they do, be more wrong than what is already going on?

Young men should not have a laugh seasoned with so much bitter experience. "You think I care about something as meaningless as age? Women are women."

He unties the knot, her nightgown opening with a rustle, and she feels his hand press against the round folds along her belly. Tybalt goes often on the prowl, the rumours say, a tomcat who must have known dozens of women – 

The stablemaster had a winning smile, when he was younger, which made up for the thinness of his hair. With all the maids clustered around him, she thought he'd known plenty of women, in secrecy and mutual discretion. All the more reason for him to appreciate her now, when the offers had melted away. 

But he turned from her, and in his eyes she saw his verdict, even before she heard the first stifled snigger behind her back. He had counted each spot on her hands, he had weighed her, jowls and wrinkles and all, and found Angelica herself too heavy in exchange for what she offered. 

She had grown lighter, afterwards. Had felt herself wither and age beneath the onslaught, slowly hollowing out.

Tybalt must have known dozens of women before her, yet he draws soft circles on her belly, as were it flat and firm like a virgin's. He touches her hair, so long bound up and held back, as if he found it as admirable as her mirror does. And he kisses slowly down her cheek, finds the jawline beneath her tired flesh, as where he not himself drawn in knife-sharp lines straining to contain the restless energy of youth.

"They will mock you if they find out," she warns, turning slightly towards him. 

He pulls her close, firm hands feeding the fire a long day has tried to bury. When their lips meet, it is no greeting, and she welcomes it. Tybalt is all demanding pressure and restless, flexing grips. He must be used to other shapes of flesh… But tonight, he came to her. Angelica smiles against his lips, responds with her own demands; no less insistent, but slower paced, until at last he opens his mouth. She tastes him, feels a flutter of relief that there is not even a linger taste of wine.

"I don't care what they say about me," Tybalt says, pressing his thigh between her legs, before his lips find her again. 

"I care." She shivers, when he buries his hand in her hair. Alowing her hands to wander over him, she is pleased by what she finds. Finely built, if a bit wiry for her tastes, and with a warmth she can sense even through his fine clothes. "So you had better not think of bragging about this."

"What, that I've been bedded by Nurse?"

"Angelica!" She hears her own voice rise, clears her throat fussily. "My name is Angelica."

"Whatever." He pushes her towards the bed, not violently, but without much care. 

So long lasted his attempts at seduction? Indeed, now the gentleness has fled, once she's agreed to bed him. Angelica grabs his short hair and steers his lips upwards again. She has grown too old to let anyone paw her like some common tart!

"What happened to your smooth hands and lips, young master Tybalt?" she grumbles when he rubs his leg too roughly against her, crowding her against the bed until she is about to tip over. "I thought you came to comfort me, not rub me sore as if you had to pay for every thrust – and never did I take you for such a penny-pincher!"

"I don't understand what you complain about," he mutters, but slows his assault. "Didn't you want a man to keep you warm?"

"A man, yes. Not an overeager puppy." Angelica captures his face, kisses him again. 

This, at least, he does not hurry through. When his hands fumble beneath her nightdress and begin to pull it upwards, his pace is slower, gentler. She hums in approval and begins on the lacings of his shirt, When she feels the smooth shift of her hemline sliding upwards, excitement wakes slowly within her loins. 

Master Tybalt, with the same lack grace that has him hurling insults when he aims for courtesy, swiftly banks her fire again. He grips her breast as if he was kneading a loaf then follows this by tumbling her backwards as were she as spry as with twenty. When he lands on her, too heavy for anyone's comfort, she pushes him away. 

He grunts, but doesn't understand her actions, and moves back on top of her, clumsy thrusts and weight without pleasure. 

Angelica's hand flies on its own volition. The slap is shockingly loud in the silence of her chambers.

"What are you doing?" Tybalt kneels above her, more surprised than angered.

She blows hair out of her face and pushes him off. At least now he lets her go. Her ribs feel bruised from where he landed and Angelica winces; this is not to her enjoyment.

Glancing at him, Angelica is relieved to see that her hand left no mark. Nor did it provoke his temper. She needs to tread more carefully, remember that she is tussling with Tybalt of all men… but his selfish ignorance, which he does not even know he possesses, infuriates her.

Rolling off the bed, she tugs the covers back and smooths down the sheets. Youthful eagerness has its place, but she wants comfort and will not settle for less. 

"If you treat all women like that, no wonder they don't come back to you as eagerly as to Montague's get," she tells him, refusing to feel shame around Tybalt when she drops the nightgown on the floor, before settling on the bed. The pillows are plump behind her back and she busies herself with her hair. She hopes this all will be worth the tangled mess she'll face tomorrow.

Tybalt shrugs. "I've never had complaints."

"A word of advice, boy – don't flaunt the fact that you've paid for every girl you've tumbled."

He looks embarrassed, but not enough to deny it. For a moment, she feels a pang of guilt – good Lord, how young he is – but quenches it. She is old, he is young; he has been raised to rule, she was taught to serve. Such is the world and Angelica has seen enough of it to be frugal with her pity. 

"Come here, then." She grasps his hand when he seems to consider stalking away. "But first your boots!" He sighs loudly, but removes them at her glare. She waits until he is finished, searching for the right words. "You began so well, Tybalt. Why did you..." Fumbling for words, she ends up tugging him closer, until once again he kneels on her bed. "Why did you grow so rough?"

"I didn't think you a delicate virgin," he answers, for the first time some mockery in his tone. "That you'd need flattery and coaxing once you had made up your mind."

Angelica rolls her eyes. "The great seducer has spoken, I see! A gentler touch is not flattery, you foolish boy." His belt is easy to open, and he helps pull it off, then tosses it away as she begins to explore him. The skin beneath is very soft and smooth, but his muscles… She has never touched a man trained from childhood in blade-use and battle. Her husband had a workman's arms, but his waist was growing flabby with drink years before they were wed. Tybalt's body has not been held back by early hunger, or bent beneath too much work, offering a delight for her eyes and hands. So well-shaped can a man be, if he was grown for finery and wealth.

Her smile deepens and Angelica thinks that she is, in a way, doing another woman a favor; it would be a shame to waste such a blade on clumsy handling.

She pulls him onto the bed so that they lie side by side, and shows him, quite firmly, where hands are welcome and to what measure he may grip. While Tybalt has never been overly interested in learning theory, he proves himself to be an adept student in bed.

They kiss as were they truly lovers, and she shivers when he combs his fingers through her hair, true tenderness in the gesture. 

"Where did you learn this, then, that you know to be so careful?"

At that, his smile grows milder, almost as gentle as his hands. "I used to – when you were busy, the other nannies were never careful enough, with their combing. Julia always said I was more patient than her maids."

Angelica cannot remember the last time she has found Tybalt in his cousin's rooms, and she is grateful for it indeed. She does not wish to consider what she'd have to do, if she came upon him now.

"You should recall that patience with all of a woman," she instructs him, then pulls one of his fine hands closer again. "Gently, gently…" 

If Tybalt is bored with caressing her body – frankly, Angelica does not care, as long as he doesn't bruise her. His kisses are good, convincing, even if his hands waver between hesitance and clumsiness. She took a lover once after she entered widowhood. Merely a fling during lent, while Julia was sent to the nuns until easter passed. His hands were rougher, but more skilled. However, he had always attacked her mouth as were he a plunderer out to steal what she guarded behind her teeth. 

She coaxes kisses from Tybalt that are sweet, takes her time to explore him, and while she does he slowly demands more response from all of her. This is how passion should be cared for, Angelica thinks, raised with firm patience instead of torn up too early.

He has lost his shirt while they were tasting each other, and his trousers are unlaced as well, but far too tight to slide off him on their own. 

"Go on." Angelica invites him with a gesture, and he tugs them off, then asks permission with his eyes, before he pulls her nightdress off. 

She does not exactly fear the moment when he sees her; without the thicker gown to cover, her shape is clearly read. And she does not think Tybalt naive enough to expect her to be more than she is, but still the blankness in his eyes as they roam over her is unpleasant. 

"You should not stare so," she admonishes. "Flatter, if you wish to look for longer. Or smile, at least, or shower kisses on your partner. But don't glare as were I a fish on the market."

"Pardon." He lifts her hand to his lips, an oddly courteous movement. "I have had..." He sniggers almost, before he kisses her hand again. "You were right! I have heard some complaints about that. But I did not think to take them seriously."

"Perhaps you should."

"Perhaps I should." His voice grows deeper, and he lays above her – but more careful now, to not put weight on her as were she nothing but an old mattress – then begins a slow slide down her body. "I feel I should apologize. I had no idea my offer would become so inadequate."

"You kiss well," she allows. "Many men fail. And you do not seduce too badly either."

"Mhm. I have seen masters at work," Tybalt says, his eyes distant again. Then he tilts his head a little, an odd smile on him. "How about I show you another thing I have been taught?"

Then he puts his lips on her breast, tongue soft and gentle. She starts, but finds her equilibrium again, pats nervously at his hair. He does not suck, but it feels – wrong. What she was for so long, what he called her when entering – 

"No, Tybalt," she requests, pushing him away. "Not there. Please."

"I suppose I should be grateful you are a kinder teacher here, than when I had a quiz in Latin," he mumbles from between her breasts. "Or my hands should ache from all this censure."

She winces. He was perhaps twelve when she assisted his exasperated tutor. "Please, master Tybalt; not another word to that, or I shall indeed be compelled to end this."

"Then leave the master at the doorstep, as well. I am already being schooled and do not need to hear the echo of my teachers." He kisses the side of her breast then asks, honest curiosity in his voice. "What did I do to displease you?"

"Right now? Nothing wrong. I merely find no pleasure in that act. A young woman's breasts may be her pride, but mine are merely," she cannot otherwise describe them, "tools."

For a wonder, Tybalt gives it proper thought, sitting back in contemplation. Then, he nods as if he understands. "It is not everyone a given, to… enjoy the flesh we are given."

She reaches, touches his chest, thinking that the pleasure of laying hands on him would perhaps be enough to satisfy her. "You were fortunate in looks. Tybalt, and don't pretend you don't know it."

"What good are looks for one who abhors mirrors? Besides, they can only do so much when the rest of me is – me. Let me grant you a secret." He laughs suddenly, silently. "Another one, to add to tonight's collection, fair Angelica. I wrestle women into bed, and have them quickly for this simple reason: they bore me, most of the time. And yet, I am not even given the relief of being bored by them all." His gaze is drawn to the door before he vinces, turning down his eyes.

Angelica bites her lip on the reproach, and waits him out; he does not name the one most forbidden to his desires, and the moment passes.

"It was then not my, ah, my lips that disappointed? Merely the location?" Tybalt's voice is stiff, as is his nod when she agrees. "Good. Then allow me, at long last, to do what I came here for and please you."

"If you are bored, I shall manage alone."

"Oh. No, no." 

There is the laugh again, twisting his lips without sound, yet plucking on a string inside of her – one that sings of madness.The years may be turning her a Capulet indeed, because Angelica feels it vibrate down her body, blooming out between her legs. 

"You do not bore me," Tybalt whispers, shifting above her on hands and knees until his feet hang off the bed. "In fact, I believe you drive me to distraction." 

Then he opens her folds, running his thumbs up and down and she feels a pulse of warmth inside. He touches her much more gently now.Although his brow is lined and his mouth pursed as were he working on a dagger gone blunt, Angelica thinks she might learn to see the intent beneath the frown. But she has already seen too much tonight, and relaxes against her pillows instead. With her eyes closed, there is no barrier to her enjoyment of the sensation. 

Only his fingers, and slowly growing wetness. The tension rises within her, relaxing what had previously been wound painfully tight. It is easy to continue as they began, to coax Tybalt to go slowly, for her juices do not flow as swiftly as in her youth. Not that she does not enjoy his attentions, she adds; yes, there, gently, now a little higher… 

Then her eyes fly wide, a cry caught desperately in her throat. Tybalt's head is between her legs, his mouth tasting where nobody has ever tasted before, and feel of that forbidden touch threatens to pull her apart.

"Oh," she moans, clasping a hand over her mouth before she grows too loud. Oh, but she wants to wail at him, can only lift her hips and in distraught silence demand more.

He gives it to her for a little longer, then, contrary as always, holds her legs down while he raises his head. "I guess this once I might have pleased?"

It should not be allowed for a man to smile like that. Not when he is still wet with her around the lips, licking it off with naught but amusement at the flavor. She tries to find her words, but Tybalt is pressing his advantage, his right hand returned to tease her.

"It was pleasing," she says at least, stubborn pride outracing pleasure. "But you broke it off too early, and I see how you now laugh at my distress. Villain!"

In response, he stretches, grabs the posters of her bed. An endless spread of pale skin, marred only by a handful scars, he makes himself a gift to her. "I feared only that I might bore you," he says, too much sarcasm in his voice to manage coyness. "But come, instruct me further, so that I may blossom under your firm tutelage." 

She marvels at his immodest nerve, but then he lowers his lashes and she follows his gaze down. All sense and reason leaves her, deafened by lust that roars awake. He has grown hard pleasing her, his manhood standing firm as if on offer. Angelica's hands hunger to touch, so much that they almost ache. She grips, she kisses – his lips taste funny, they taste of her – and he shudders sweetly when she strokes him, responds when she urges him to. Now his rough grip is welcome, now she needs the weight of his body, now he gives her all she asks for and so generously, that she dares demand more and ever more.

* * *

Angelica awakens in the pre-light before dawn, a habit ingrained over years of watchful nights. But today the house sleeps calmly and she finds only the pleasant ache beneath her legs and a cared-for wholeness in her body.

A while longer, Angelica allows herself the luxury of her bed with all it's scents and memories. She will rise and wash soon, then air the sheets herself. She will pin up her hair, put on her dress and more likely than not, she will endure another day of stares and mocking whispers. 

But here and now, she is beautiful. While she remembers, she lets her hand retrace the path – still moist, welcoming, despite the hours passed – and enjoys once more the waning embers of intimacy shared.

It will have to last her, this memory. He offered, but they both know it is unwise for Tybalt to return. Wagging tongues can drag them both down, and yet Angelica fears more for him to learn the habit of walking these halls by night. Spurred on by something akin to desire.. No, that danger is too great. 

Oh, she enjoyed his visit, the hands that could be taught sweetness and – here she blushes, like a girl in spring – his even sweeter tongue. But she is not young, and knows better than to let desire rule. While Tybalt may have found more enjoyment than he expected in the firmness of her demands, his heart is locked onto a path of ruin, should he ever slip his self-forged chains. 

No more visits; she will not court disaster.

She sighs, the last waves of comfort having lapped upon her shore. Another day is beginning, and Angelica does not even dare imagine what state her hair is in, or the time it shall take to tame it. 

At least she knows that there is one man courteous enough to ignore any slips, if she fails to properly pin it down.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [That Long Evening of Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199287) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen)




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